


meriggiar pallido e assorto

by caravaggiosbrushes



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Domestic Bliss, Dorks in Love, Established Relationship, Fix-It, Gay, Happy Ending, Holidays, Inspired by Twitter, JAMES FITZJAMES USING ITALIAN (MY TIEM TO SHINE), M/M, Post-Canon, Romance, Twitter: terror_exe Flash Fest, Use of Italian, francis.......trying to use italian, gays supporting gays, hint of bridglar, i probably wrote way too much im sorry, italy!!!, lovebirds, sicily!!!!, ur valid bby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:42:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26146594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caravaggiosbrushes/pseuds/caravaggiosbrushes
Summary: "Ah, this should be the right place." James exclaims, spotting what seems to be a gentlemen's tailor shop, at the end of the street. "Come, dear." It's incredibly liberating to hear James' voice forming these words right here, in plain light. They should be more careful, even when in a different country, because some Englishman or English speaker could be passing next to them just now and that would be it, they would have no way to explain or justify their behaviour, two men walking far too close to each other, constantly touching each other’s arms and elbows, calling one another 'darling', 'my dear'and 'love', a hand of the shorter man placed possessively on the small of his companion's back.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier & Commander James Fitzjames, Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 20
Kudos: 35
Collections: @terror_exe Flash Fest





	meriggiar pallido e assorto

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I wrote this for the [#terrorexefest](https://areyougonnabe.tumblr.com/post/627075837789962240/announcing-the-terrorexe-flash-fest-coming-next) challenge, with [this tweet ](https://twitter.com/terror_exe/status/1292856229061156864?s=19)as prompt ( _“are we lovers, Francis?”_ ).
> 
> I'm Italian and Fitzjames spoke "a little Italian" (according to Battersby, thanks Samia for pointing this out to me!), so it was time I featured that in a story.
> 
> It’s domestic fitzier on holiday!!
> 
> Thanks to [my bro ](https://burningfreeze.tumblr.com/)for beta reading this, ily <3 your corrections and comments made my day, and if this fic would have a subtitle that would be “Gay solidarity transcends borders ♥”, as she said. ;)
> 
> Enjoy <3 

_The first time that you touched me_

_Oh, will wonders ever cease?_

_Blessed be the mystery of love_

  
  
  


It happens when they are in Italy for a few, blessed days. 

The summer here is hot and dry, their spirits high and bright, just like the sun that Francis can feel burning on his tender skin, making it patchy with all those freckles he dislikes so strongly. He finds they make him look weak, not manly enough; only sweet girls have them around their delicate noses, not grown up sailors with rough hands ruined by ropes and salt and freezing weather. Anyway, it's not like he can do something about them, he can't possibly hide indoors all day: they’re here for a short but so deserved break, both of them managed to get their permits for the same period of time.

Moreover, Francis has noticed the look in James' eyes while he was looking at the crystal clear sea, glinting under the sun, and how his face has softened when he sank his feet in the warm sand, toes curling pleasantly in it, his longer locks of hair gently moved by the sea breeze. He doesn't want to miss any of this just because his pale complexion can't stand a bit of sunlight, so he does his best to shield his head with both hands and his captain's hat in turns.

Still, as expected, a myriad of little freckles quickly made their appearance on his shoulders and back (or so James told him on their second night here, when Francis was undressing in their shared room with his back on him. "Oh, Francis," James' whisper has reached him from the opposite side of the room. He turned around, nightshirt still in hands, just before James reached him, face open and gaze so full of affection that it had him lowering his gaze. He made Francis turn around once again to set his lips in between his shoulder blades, "Why didn't you tell me you get even more handsome under the sun?").

Francis hasn't had a proper break in years. Wasn't the type, before James. But he wasn't the type for a lot of things, before James. 

They mutually decided for the Northern coast of Sicily: Francis has only briefly been to Italy once before, but never so far South, never on this wonderful island, and James had thoroughly insisted that he really had to see it, at least once, possibly in his company, pretty please? And Francis can never say no to James, so here they are.

James was right, of course: this place is magnificent. Francis has never seen these many bright colors before: everything here seems to shine wildly from within, and his pale blue eyes more than once have found themselves in great difficulty.

"We should get you a pair of these as well." James says one day, noticing him squinting and fighting against the aggressive sunlight of mid-day. He's tapping a fingertip on the edge of his own sunglasses, a new pair he had acquired back in England, especially for this trip, "Your eyes are too light for this, Francis."

"I think that's a very wise idea." He feels tears pricking at his eyes, "Dammit, I should have got them in London."

"Well my darling, I suggested it, if you recall, but what did you say? I think it was something along the lines of 'Come on James, it's just a few days, I don't need _fancy dark lenses_ , I'll be alright.'" He's smiling affectionately, no real mock in his voice. "Here," James takes his own sunglasses off, handing them to Francis, "Until we make it back to the city to get you a pair."

"It's alright-"

"Francis." James insists, gently pushing his sunglasses at the centre of his chest. He looks at Francis' face, a sweet smile curling his lips. "Wear them. For me?"

He wears them. 

They're incredibly helpful.

In the city, the temperature feels even more suffocating. The air is hot and dry here, far away from the sea and its humidity, and Francis finds it almost difficult to breathe this dense air. 

"Ah, this should be the right place." James exclaims, spotting what seems to be a gentlemen's tailor shop, at the end of the street. "Come, dear."

It's incredibly liberating to hear James' voice forming these words right here, in plain light. They should be more careful, even when in a different country, because some Englishman or English speaker could be passing next to them just now and that would be it, they would have no way to explain or justify their behaviour, two men walking far too close to each other, constantly touching each other’s arms and elbows, calling one another " _darling_ ", " _my dear_ " and “ _love_ ”, a hand of the shorter man placed possessively on the small of his companion's back. 

But under the foreign scorching sun of a place where no one seems to know who he is, Francis feels reckless in a delicious way. It's James' voice, light and easy as never before, that makes him so wonderfully careless and it feels good to tease his beautiful man by saying, "You shouldn't be calling me like that out here," only to add "my love" at the end, to see James' face softening into a big, bright smile, as he leans towards Francis, apparently out of instinct, before catching himself.

"But I love how you look at me when I do that," James whispers, "You look both very intrigued and as if you're about to scold me."

"That, yes." He confirms, "But the way I'd like to scold you it's not something one can say here, sweetheart."

Sometimes it feels good to be far away from home, Francis thinks, savoring this precious moment of happiness they are indulging in, even if it’s tinged with a shade of danger; it only makes it all the more irresistible: Francis feels like taking James’ hand in his own, hugging his slender waist from behind, closing his lips around James’ earlobe, here, in the middle of the street, where everyone can see them- he _wants_ them to see. He burns with the desire to show his companion to the entire world, because no one else but himself has someone as wonderful as James by their side, and although Francis is far from being an exhibitionist and has never cared for people’s opinions about his personal choices, well, with James it's different. James deserves to be shown and admired by the entire world, beautiful thing that he is. And Francis wants to be the one having him at his arm, at his side, in his embrace.

They can play this game a bit longer while they’re here, in this forbidden Paradise where colors are sharper than ever, the air smells like lemons, and people seem to only live off fresh fish and juicy figs and joyful greetings. 

Francis is still wearing James' glasses, comfortably perched on his nose: it truly is a whole different world like this, his eyes not stinging anymore.

He follows James into the shop, which is blessedly fresher than the street, so he can finally breathe more easily. He takes his (James') sunglasses off, adjusting to the new light.

A man in a simple but elegant creamy waistcoat stands up from his seat, receiving them with open arms and a big smile. "Buongiorno, signori."

Francis knows no Italian, but even he is familiar with their _buongiorno_ , constantly resonating everywhere. "Buongiorno." 

His pronunciation is terrible at best, but he cares about being polite more than he worries about sounding stupid. Plus anytime he uses (or better, _tries to_ use) Italian, James looks at him with a smitten look in his eyes and this time is no different.

James eventually turns towards the shop’s owner, after a small smirk, just for Francis. "Buongiorno, signore." His voice rings loud and proud, even in a language he doesn’t excel in. He looks like he’s picking his words carefully but surely, his speech slow but clear: "Puoi aiutarci? Il mio amico ha bisogno di questi," he points at his own sunglasses still in Francis' hands, "Tu li hai? Semplice e pulito, lui, ah… Non ama i decori inutili."

"Ma certamente." The man nods gingerly, big smile still plastered on his tanned face. He lifts his chin in James' sunglasses direction, "Qual è il problema con quelli?" 

"Nessuno. Sono miei, e..." James furrows his brow, probably in the effort of remembering the right words, the tip of his tongue darting out now and then, "I miei occhi siano più scuri, ma con questa luce ne ho bisogno anche io."

"Assolutamente, il sole della Sicilia sorprende sempre tutti. Bene, vediamo cos'ho per il suo amico." He smiles at that, somewhat knowingly, even if Francis has no idea what he's saying. He has to trust James in this, his understanding of Italian is close to zero, apart from a few basic greetings and a couple of other… _things_ that James has murmured into his ears late last night.

James looks like he has the situation under control anyway, nodding with a dashing smile, "Grazie molte."

The man disappears for a minute in the back of the shop, coming back with a few slim boxes in his arms. He lays them carefully on the desk, one by one, and addresses James once again while opening the first one, "Di dove siete, signori? Se posso chiederlo."

Francis feels like a fish underwater, not understanding a single word of this, so he does what he always does in situations like this: he focuses on James only, because he knows him better than anyone else, and even when speaking a different language he can make out most of the things he's discussing simply by looking at James' face and reactions.

For example, he's smiling now, looking honest and proud and oh, alright, Francis understands him when he says "Inghilterra" and he understands even the reason why James doesn’t give the man a more detailed answer: they are strangers here, let's keep it that way.

The salesman looks delighted at that. "Come pensavo! Voi inglesi avete un modo di fare tutto vostro, siete molto eleganti."

This, Francis has no idea what it means, but one thing he does know is that he doesn't like the way the man has said it, all flattering voice and batting eyelashes at James. Perhaps it’s Francis' imagination, but still. He doesn’t like it.

James doesn't look offended though, he's talking easily, offering some kind of comment to the man while examining the first pair of sunglasses with Francis.

"What do you think about these?" His smile is so different from the one he has given the salesman: Francis is well acquainted with this one, he recognizes the barely-there dimples on his cheeks and the warm, comforting light in James' eyes when he looks at Francis (somehow, impossibly, this is how he _always_ looks at Francis).

Francis forces his smile to be just a subtle one, and focuses on the pair of sunglasses in James' hands. He takes them, tries them on, feels for their weight and shape, how they sit on his nose. He's not an expert and he doesn't really care about fashion, but James likes to spend his time in their tailor shop back in London and he to look at the latest accessories in men's fashion and helping Francis pick up a new waistcoat when he needs one, so Francis takes his time with this, for James' pleasure. 

"I like them and I can see very well," he says, because it's the truth, but then he also adds, "What do you think?" because he knows how much James loves offering his own insights.

The man does, in fact, look delighted. 

"I think you look very good in them," is what he says, which makes Francis' ears turn red (he can feel it) because back home James could have never said something like this. Here, it feels incredibly natural and scandalous at the same time. It’s invigorating, like a quick dip in a freezing bath on a summer's day.

"But you should try some other pairs as well, since we're here anyway." James adds, turning to the salesman, who looks like he's refraining from smiling or saying something, "Posso vedere gli altri? Per favore."

"Certo, a voi." He carefully opens every other box on the desk, leaving them ready for them to look at. "Prego."

Francis takes his time trying them on -they're not home, no one knows him here, he can allow himself this,- while James keeps making polite small talk with the salesman.

"É la prima volta in Sicilia?" Francis hears the man saying, or asking, he guesses, since it sounds like a question.

"Sì, per entrambi." James replies. Francis only knows the _'sì'_ which means _'yes'_ , the rest is a mystery. "La sua seconda volta in Italia."

"Spero vi stia dando quello che cercavate."

There's a curious pause then, so Francis turns to look at them, finding James staring at him. His gaze is so affectionate that it feels like too much and for a moment he's afraid the man will catch their secret, that they will be in trouble, everything ruined in a heartbeat.

More so when James softly says, "Sì" still looking at him, ignoring the salesman completely. "Assolutamente."

Francis arches an eyebrow at him, (he tries very hard not to focus on the warmth spreading in his chest and on his face) not getting what they're talking about or if he's expected to join the conversation, but James simply shakes his head a little, as in telling him he has nothing to be concerned about.

After another short pause, the salesman speaks again. "Siete qui per piacere o dovere?"

James' voice is deeper, "Piacere."

"Sono certo che lei e il suo innamorato ne troverete molto, qui." The man's voice comes off as eager. Francis wonders what he's said.

"Il mio-" James' eyes go incredibly wide at that and he ends up almost spluttering, sounding like he's choking on his words. "No, it's not-"

...He's forgetting to use Italian, now? This doesn't sound like James at all. Francis turns to look at him, feeling his own eyes widening when he finds James looking almost comically red in the face, tugging at his collar shirt.

He only glances at Francis, clearing his voice, then nods at the employee, "Voglio dire-"

"Va tutto bene." The man is now smiling almost reassuringly, "Non sarò io a tradirvi. O dovrei tradire anche me stesso. Capisce?"

There is a long pause, now. Francis has forgotten what pair of sunglasses he's holding, totally taken by this weird exchange between the two men.

"Sì." James says at length, holding the man's gaze, "Penso di sì."

The salesman beams at them both, and Francis tentatively offers a polite smile, feeling more confused and curious by the second, so he chooses the first pair of sunglasses he's seen -they feel comfortable, the lenses are dark enough to protect his weak eyes and the price is totally reasonable,- and they quickly wrap up their purchase experience.

James stops once again before leaving the shop, smiling at the salesman, "Grazie, per… Tutto."

He sounds strangely touched, more than what any material purchase should have the right to make him.

The man's gaze is bright and honest, or at least it looks like that. "Grazie a voi per l'acquisto. Vi auguro una buona giornata! Tornate quando volete, siete i benvenuti qui."

Outside, Francis stops James by the elbow, the box with his new purchase still in James’ hands, forgotten for now. "What did that man say?"

James shrugs, faking -Francis can tell,- a nonchalance he doesn't posses, not now: his cheeks are gently blushed, but not because of the hot weather, and he’s avoiding Francis’ gaze. "Nothing of importance."

"And yet it shocked you." He lifts an eyebrow at him, not upset, merely amused and curious about this strange turn of their afternoon. "Mind sharing it?"

“Really, Francis, it’s not-”

“Don’t say it’s nothing, please.” He anticipates his words, “I can tell that it’s something important. I just want to make sure he wasn’t disrespectful to you.”

“Oh no, no it’s not that.” James immediately shakes his head. He sounds sincere, so Francis believes him. “It was a pleasing conversation. Did you… Did you catch anything about it?”

“James, dear, you were both using Italian.” He almost laughs at the question, “You know that my Italian stops where it starts.”

“Right. Yes.” He seems strangely anxious, but also excited as if he’s barely holding himself back from confessing something. “Well, he… He’s been very nice and polite, but then he shocked me because he, well. He called us ‘lovers’?”

Oh.

Francis was expecting a comment about James' appearance maybe, because it always gets a lot of compliments, from ladies and gentlemen too; or perhaps a dirty joke, since Italians are so loud and somewhat vulgar, in that funny, chaotic way of theirs. 

What he wasn't expecting was a man who doesn’t even speak their same language, who has never seen them before, to decipher their relationship so quickly and perfectly.

_Are we this obvious?_ Francis asks himself, both afraid of what that thought implies, but also thrilled at the idea that anyone around them, man and woman, might be able to see that James is his, and he is James'.

"I see the reason for your blush, now." A thought suddenly crosses his mind, "Did you contradict him?"

"Well," James does look at him, now. He actually stops walking, staring at Francis with his entire body turned toward him, "I did not. Should I have, Francis?"

It’s such a simple, yet complicated question.

They’ve never put a name to... this. They’ve talked and talked about their- relationship, many times now, but they’ve silently and mutually agreed to never put a label on it, because when you give something or someone a name, you bring it to life. And having something as powerful as this, hovering above their heads, it’s too much of a risk. 

Perhaps they don’t deserve it, Francis suddenly thinks, because the people who _do_ deserve this, have names for it, they call each other _husband_ and _wife_ and _fiancée_ and _future life companion_. 

Perhaps they are just fake. Both of them, complete impostors, playing a game they don’t know how to reach the end of. He and James? They have no words for this… _thing_ that they have brought to life and are now watching grow together. They are, and probably forever will be searching for the proper word for it.

Francis feels choked up at the mere thought of referring to James as _‘my husband’,_ but that does not mean he’s allowed to use it.

But perhaps they have no words for this simply because no one has invented them _yet_. Everything has its origin somewhere, and maybe they are giving birth to this together, for the first time in history, maybe they are the first ones to search for a word that will properly express the unspeakable amount of love they feel for each other, and the dread of being forced to stay separated and not to touch each other, and the immense relief in being finally able to embrace the other person and bury their faces in their― lover’s? husband’s? most-loved-person-ever’s?, neck.

Perhaps they are the firsts of a long list of people _-couples_ , Francis thinks, _lovers_ ,- that are looking for a new word to define each other.

Perhaps it’s time to finally put a name to this.

He takes a step closer to James, who does not move. “No.” Francis murmurs, “No, I don’t think you should have.”

James is looking at him as if he can’t believe his words, as if Francis has just reached for the sky and has brought the Sun down in the palm of a hand for him to touch. It reminds him of that time in the White Hell, when James has confessed his story with a trembling voice, closing it with a shaking, “Are we brothers, Francis?” which was the same scared but hopeful voice he’s now whispering, "Is this what we are?" interrupting himself only to swallow hard, "Are we lovers, Francis?" 

He finds himself to be hyper aware of his own limbs: his hands feel numb, his legs and feet as light as feathers, his face hot from the temperature and from everything he’s experiencing, as if his thoughts are burning his skin with their force.

"Would you hate it if it'd be so?" He whispers.

"I- no, I," James takes a shuddering breath, "Francis, I would like that so much. It's- _everything_ I want."

“Then you shall have it.” He feels choked up, his cheeks impossibly warm, “And _I_ shall have it too. What do you say?”

“I say,” James tentatively places a hand on his arm, above the elbow, and just like that, every other sound around Francis vanishes. “I want so bad to be yours-”

“You are.” He rushes to reassure him. “James-”

“Yes, but I wish to _hear it._ ” His eyes are very big, fixed on Francis’, “And to have a word for it. For us. I know I won’t be able to use it with anyone else, but it will be enough just to have it, for me and you.”

Francis’ need to embrace James is a physical thing, so strong it takes the air away from him.

“Then let’s go home, so that I can call you ‘my lover’ and give you what you deserve as such.”

James’ smile is incredulous and delighted when he nods, once, then twice.

They were so entrapped in each other that they both failed to notice the salesman from the tailor shop, who has been watching their entire conversation with a big, almost paternal smile on his face, thinking about his own lover, currently asleep in their bed at home, his body as masculine as his own (even if Enrico's skin is fairer than Giovanni's, and Enrico's hair are softer than his, and it smells like oranges, impossibly so, because Enrico is a wonder and Giovanni… Giovanni suspects he looks at Enrico the same way the tall English man was looking at his lover).

**Author's Note:**

> \- idk if English-speaker readers would get it, but Enrico=Harry and Giovanni=John……..yes it's **bridglar**. In Sicily. Safe and happy, this makes absolutely no sense but I love them so it ok!!!! 
> 
> \- title shamelessly stolen from _Meriggiare pallido e assorto_ , wonderful poem by Eugenio Montale. 
> 
> \- feel free to ask for any translation of any italian part! I made James using a very simplified italian, since he was not perfect at it. 
> 
> \- [retweet ](https://twitter.com/downeymore/status/1299099822520233987?s=20)\+ [reblog ](https://caravaggiosbrushes.tumblr.com/post/627641033967239168/meriggiar-pallido-e-assorto-caravaggiosbrushes)! 
> 
> \- thank you for reading! <3


End file.
